I nod. “Yeah.”
“He said the director called him personally.”
“That sounds about right.”
He pauses for a beat and then asks, “Who the hell are you?”
There’s only one way I can answer. I lower my voice and look him in the eyes. “I’m Batman.”
And he actually cracks a smile. Then the elevator opens on the tenth floor and he leads me down a hallway. There are a few agents milling about, but only one door has an armed guard stationed outside. They nod to each other, the marshal opens the door, and I step in alone.
The lights are low, the blinds closed. Kennedy’s propped up in a hospital bed, her left arm encased in plaster hanging in a sling. I stand there for a minute, reminding myself that she’s alive; looking her over, taking in every mark, every bruise. Her face is a mess—bottom lip split in the middle, caked with black dried blood; her left cheek is scraped raw, already starting to turn purple; the eye above it is swollen completely shut; and there’s a row of stiches at her hairline.
“You’re here.” Her voice is soft—raspy—like her throat is sore.
And then I’m sitting on the bed, cupping the uninjured side of her jaw. She leans into my palm, and my throat strangles so tight I can barely get the words out. “You’re okay?”
She tries to smile, but can’t quite manage it with her lip. Her good eye gazes back at me—that sweet, soft golden brown. “I’m okay.”
My other hand gently—so gently—runs through her hair, over her shoulder, settling on her chest, soaking up the feeling of her heart beating strong and steady beneath it. I swallow hard and my eyelids burn, because she’s my Kennedy and she’s hurt . . . and I could’ve lost her. For good.
“Jesus, Kennedy . . . let me just . . .” I can’t finish. Instead I pull her into my arms, chest to chest. I turn my face into her neck, breathing against her soft skin that still smells like peaches beneath the scent of hospital antiseptic. She’s trembling, so I stroke her hair and rub her back and rock her slowly, resting my lips against her temple.
And I want to stay just like this. Where I know she’s safe because my arms are around her, and I’ll never, ever let anything fucking hurt her again.
“They hit the car hard,” she whispers against my shoulder, her fingers clinging to my bicep. “I wasn’t wearing my seat belt, and we flipped on our side. I saw their feet—I knew they were coming for me.”
I press her closer and have to force myself not to hold her too tight.
Her voice goes shaky and I hear the tears. “And all I could think was that I’d never see you again.” She pulls back just enough so she can look up at me. “That I’d never have the chance to tell you that . . . that I have loved you forever . . .”
The last word comes out on a sob, her face crumbling. “. . . but never as much as I love you right now.”
I wipe her tears away with my thumb, kissing her softly—just a brush against her upper lip. And my voice is steady, solid, with the easiest words I’ve ever said.
“I love you.”
Then I tuck her in against my chest, my chin on the top of her head. “We’re going to have lots of time to say that to each other, Kennedy. Over and over again. Thousands of days to show it.” I kiss her hair. “It’s gonna be sickening.”
She laughs.
And that’s when I know for sure that she’s going to be okay.
• • •
A little while later, after a nurse checks in with pain meds and Kennedy’s sucking down some apple juice, I ask about the bastards who went after her.
“The agents shot them. They’re dead.”
“Good.” There’s a dark undercurrent to my voice.
I take the empty juice box from her and put it on the table. She lies back on the pillow, looking sleepy—the medication’s doing its job. She touches her discolored cheek. “You can start calling me Bruiser now—there’s a nickname for you.”
“Bruiser’s a name for someone who gives bruises, not gets them.”
She traces the frown lines on my forehead, smoothing my scowl. “Too soon to joke about it, huh?”
“A millennium isn’t enough time to make this jokeable.”
Before she can reply, a sharp female voice cuts through the closed door.
“Do you think I’m concerned about hospital policy? I don’t care if she already has a visitor, I will see my daughter now!”
Kennedy’s good eye slides closed. “Oh no.”
“Remove yourself from my path or there will be consequences, young man!”
“Oh no.”
Mitzy Randolph steps into the room, looking unusually haggard in an untucked dark blue blouse, black slacks, her pearls askew, her hair falling out of its bun. I’ve never seen Mitzy’s hair not flawlessly styled; I always figured the strands were too terrified to move.
Like a bodyguard, I stand but don’t move an inch from Kennedy’s bedside. Because, mother or no mother, if I hear one backhanded insult, I will lose my shit.
“Hello, Mother,” Kennedy says quietly.
Mitzy’s breathing is shallow as her eyes roam Kennedy’s battered features. She moves forward slowly, as if she’s in a trance. “Oh, Kennedy, your lovely face.”
“It’s all right.” She tries for a stoic grin. “They’re just bruises. Nothing permanent, no scars.”
“He said the director called him personally.”
“That sounds about right.”
He pauses for a beat and then asks, “Who the hell are you?”
There’s only one way I can answer. I lower my voice and look him in the eyes. “I’m Batman.”
And he actually cracks a smile. Then the elevator opens on the tenth floor and he leads me down a hallway. There are a few agents milling about, but only one door has an armed guard stationed outside. They nod to each other, the marshal opens the door, and I step in alone.
The lights are low, the blinds closed. Kennedy’s propped up in a hospital bed, her left arm encased in plaster hanging in a sling. I stand there for a minute, reminding myself that she’s alive; looking her over, taking in every mark, every bruise. Her face is a mess—bottom lip split in the middle, caked with black dried blood; her left cheek is scraped raw, already starting to turn purple; the eye above it is swollen completely shut; and there’s a row of stiches at her hairline.
“You’re here.” Her voice is soft—raspy—like her throat is sore.
And then I’m sitting on the bed, cupping the uninjured side of her jaw. She leans into my palm, and my throat strangles so tight I can barely get the words out. “You’re okay?”
She tries to smile, but can’t quite manage it with her lip. Her good eye gazes back at me—that sweet, soft golden brown. “I’m okay.”
My other hand gently—so gently—runs through her hair, over her shoulder, settling on her chest, soaking up the feeling of her heart beating strong and steady beneath it. I swallow hard and my eyelids burn, because she’s my Kennedy and she’s hurt . . . and I could’ve lost her. For good.
“Jesus, Kennedy . . . let me just . . .” I can’t finish. Instead I pull her into my arms, chest to chest. I turn my face into her neck, breathing against her soft skin that still smells like peaches beneath the scent of hospital antiseptic. She’s trembling, so I stroke her hair and rub her back and rock her slowly, resting my lips against her temple.
And I want to stay just like this. Where I know she’s safe because my arms are around her, and I’ll never, ever let anything fucking hurt her again.
“They hit the car hard,” she whispers against my shoulder, her fingers clinging to my bicep. “I wasn’t wearing my seat belt, and we flipped on our side. I saw their feet—I knew they were coming for me.”
I press her closer and have to force myself not to hold her too tight.
Her voice goes shaky and I hear the tears. “And all I could think was that I’d never see you again.” She pulls back just enough so she can look up at me. “That I’d never have the chance to tell you that . . . that I have loved you forever . . .”
The last word comes out on a sob, her face crumbling. “. . . but never as much as I love you right now.”
I wipe her tears away with my thumb, kissing her softly—just a brush against her upper lip. And my voice is steady, solid, with the easiest words I’ve ever said.
“I love you.”
Then I tuck her in against my chest, my chin on the top of her head. “We’re going to have lots of time to say that to each other, Kennedy. Over and over again. Thousands of days to show it.” I kiss her hair. “It’s gonna be sickening.”
She laughs.
And that’s when I know for sure that she’s going to be okay.
• • •
A little while later, after a nurse checks in with pain meds and Kennedy’s sucking down some apple juice, I ask about the bastards who went after her.
“The agents shot them. They’re dead.”
“Good.” There’s a dark undercurrent to my voice.
I take the empty juice box from her and put it on the table. She lies back on the pillow, looking sleepy—the medication’s doing its job. She touches her discolored cheek. “You can start calling me Bruiser now—there’s a nickname for you.”
“Bruiser’s a name for someone who gives bruises, not gets them.”
She traces the frown lines on my forehead, smoothing my scowl. “Too soon to joke about it, huh?”
“A millennium isn’t enough time to make this jokeable.”
Before she can reply, a sharp female voice cuts through the closed door.
“Do you think I’m concerned about hospital policy? I don’t care if she already has a visitor, I will see my daughter now!”
Kennedy’s good eye slides closed. “Oh no.”
“Remove yourself from my path or there will be consequences, young man!”
“Oh no.”
Mitzy Randolph steps into the room, looking unusually haggard in an untucked dark blue blouse, black slacks, her pearls askew, her hair falling out of its bun. I’ve never seen Mitzy’s hair not flawlessly styled; I always figured the strands were too terrified to move.
Like a bodyguard, I stand but don’t move an inch from Kennedy’s bedside. Because, mother or no mother, if I hear one backhanded insult, I will lose my shit.
“Hello, Mother,” Kennedy says quietly.
Mitzy’s breathing is shallow as her eyes roam Kennedy’s battered features. She moves forward slowly, as if she’s in a trance. “Oh, Kennedy, your lovely face.”
“It’s all right.” She tries for a stoic grin. “They’re just bruises. Nothing permanent, no scars.”
